The Winter Comps had been allowed a snow extension. The Competition Sec. pinned up a note explaining the Extension rules, turned his phone off and went on holiday to the other side of the world.

Pancake and Gus had made it through the quarter finals of the Winter Knock out. They had won the Battle of Bighorn and beaten Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull, despite Mrs. Pancake falling and breaking her leg. She was out of hospital, the chores had been delegated and Pancake had become a dab hand at using the washing machine and throwing together a good curry. And fitting in his golf.

Another battle lay ahead on the fairways. More ambushes and arrows to dodge. Gus refused to believe what he heard and Pancake said it was lost in translation.

Their opponents in the next round were the Chippie and the Chef.

Occasional swindlers. Not hard core regulars, but fellow fairway walkers. One fitted kitchens for wealthy ladies who lunched. His partner, the Chef, served up gastronomic delights at a golf course where P.G.Woodehouse had a forwarding address for his mail. C/o The Bunker on the Sixth, The Addington Golf Course, Surrey. Had he not gone to walk the celestial fairways, Woodehouse would have tucked into the Chef’s roast beef with Yorkshires, served with thick dark gravy. Chef had an unfortunate accident in the kitchen with a piece of marble the previous summer. It was an unequal battle and the finger came second, by a tendon. It meant a radical grip change but Chef still played off ten. His unbending finger and conservative dress complemented the Chippie’s flamboyant style.

Pancake made the calls and sent Gus a text.

Monday 10.48. Be there.

Little did they realize what lay ahead.

The Chef made an extra batch of lasagne. The Chippie fitted a Red Aga into a distressed oak kitchen for another Lady who lunched. The slate was late arriving from Wales and he told the client he would be back on the Tuesday.

The weekend prior to the match, Gus decided to practice.

“Just off to do some recycling” he said.

“When are you going to hang those pictures and fix the shower?” asked his wife.

“When I have the time” he said. He did the recycling and on the way back called into the driving range. He worked on his alignment. It went well and the temptation of another bucket of balls was too great. He sent a text.

Back home soon. Stuck in traffic x

The Chef spent the weekend cooking bacon butties and full English breakfast for hungry golfers. He hit some balls in the net before serving roast beef and apple pie for Sunday lunch. The Chippie ordered golf gear on the internet and Pancake put on his Munster shirt and watched his oval ball team win and celebrated with a drop or two of the black stuff. He was quite the man of the house with Mrs. Pancake laid up with her fractured leg. He had mastered the white machines and their dials and the house ran in an ordered well oiled fashion.

He kept the coloureds away from the delicates and no socks went missing on his watch. There was food on the table and the bathroom gleamed. He had moved seamlessly from mono to multi tasking. He read the paper, did the crossword and still found time for golf.

“Don’t know what all the fuss is about with them household chores” he said to Sid, but he did not repeat it within striking distance of Mrs. Pancake’s crutches. He caught the late news on Sunday evening and sent another text.

Bring your fecking waterproofs and your ‘A’ game. Pancake

Monday rain brought gridlocked motorways, red tail lights and the whirr of windscreen wipers. Commuters hid under brollies and trains ran late. Children put on wellies and jumped in puddles.

Pancake and Gus got to the club early. The easterly wind howled and the rain came down sideways. They checked the board and the rules were clear. Play within the extension or spin a coin. They sat by the roaring log fire and looked out to the rain lashed fairways.

“Don’t tell me you are going out in this weather?” said the Window Cleaner.

Pancake looked at him. Gus spoke first.

“No choice. It’s go out or spin a coin” he said.

“Well I would take my chance with the coin” he replied.

“Would expect nothing less” muttered the Munster Man. They were on their second cup of coffee when the Chippie and The Chef arrived.

“Bejazzus” said Pancake looking at the Chippie’s head cover.

“Wouldn’t you think it would be in need of a saucer of milk” he said. Gus grinned.

The Chef with his unbending finger and subdued golf gear came into the clubhouse. He was followed by the Chippie in his carefully selected Stromberg orange and black trousers, teamed with his Ping burnt orange transition F3D shirt. His Addidas Trophy belt completed the outfit.

“Get dressed in the dark did you?” asked Pancake.

“Hope you have got the shoes to match” chipped in Gus. As it happened the shoes were to prove the Chippie’s Achilles Heel. They finished their coffee, worked out the shots and donned their waterproofs.

“So everyone gets a shot off Pancake” said Gus.

“I think you are nuts” said the Window Cleaner. Pancake pulled on his cap. Heads down they walked to the first tee. Overhead the sky was black and the rain hammered on the brolleys and the lake.

“You wouldn’t take a duck out in this” said Pancake as the moorhens paddled for cover in the bulrushes.

The Chef and Chippie won the honour, shook hands and drove off. They had the course to themselves except for the remnants of their Swindle who gamely headed off in front of them. The Chef played well in the rain and he got his par. It made a pleasant change from the heat of the kitchen. Pancake and Gus were one down.

The second hole is played from an elevated tee, in the distance a thirteen century church tucked among the trees. Its spire touched the low cloud and the rain hammered against the stained glass windows. Pancake had a word with St. Jude.

“Is there any way you can stop this fecking rain” he said. The Saint was busy but Pancake carried the lake, got the par and pulled the match back to level.

The greens began to take on water and wet weather gear was tested to the max.

The Chippie wore his Galvins but he had picked up the wrong shoe bag.

He wore his Lopro Footjoys with orange flashes. They had full grain leather uppers but the waterproof membrane gave up the fight on the third hole and began to leak. Osmosis did for the Stromberg trousers. He sent a text under his umbrella.

Soaked. Bring change of clothes and footjoys

The Chef tried to keep his glove and grips dry and knuckled down to the job in hand. He knew about marble and pain and the heat of the kitchen and did not like to lose. Pancake knew it was time to source some new waterproofs.

“Even me fecking arse is wet” he said under his umbrella to the umbrella next to him. Gus had fought the Battle of Little Bighorn in the last round. He was not going to lose to the Chef and the Chippie.

At the turn the Swindle ahead called it a day. They left the submerged fairways and waterlogged greens to the knock out match.

“Hang in there lads” they whispered in the clubhouse.

“Give me five to change” said the Chippie.

“What’s the score” said the Swindle.

“One down” said Gus, steaming by the fire.

The Chef had a quick towel over. Pancake shook himself like a St. Bernard and bought a new glove.

“Waterproof?” asked the lad in the Pro shop.

The Chippie came out of the changing rooms in his dry Stromberg Le Touquet navy and red stripe trousers, boot cut with red welts. These were teamed with a plain black Galvin Green top and his classic Footjoys. White smooth calf skin and brown croc print saddle. Water lockout soles. Red golf socks and the same Addidas trophy belt. He shook his Galvin Green waterproofs. Black with contrasting lime stripes.

The dry clothes did the trick. The Chef and Chippie won the 10^th. Gus and Pancake exchanged sodden looks. Somewhere in the desert, the Pros on the European tour were taking on water and applying Sun block Factor 25. Mrs. Pancake was at home with her fractured leg and the Swindle was steaming by the log fire.

“We aren’t gonna lose this” Gus said to Pancake. “Not when we have come this far”.

Pancake felt he owed Gus. He was a Cork man to his soul, and then a Man of Munster. They won the next two holes and halved thirteen and fourteen. On the fifteenth the Chippie found the trees and the Chef missed the putt.

“One up to the good guys” said Pancake.

The Chippie sent a text under his umbrella.

Bring another change of clothes for when I finish.

The 16^th is a long par five with woods to the right where deer hide among the cool silver birches on long hot summer days. Hole halved in six.

“Let’s get the feckers here” said Pancake as they reached the seventeenth tee. Chef got the par. Gus missed the putt for birdie. One up and one to play.

The eighteenth is a testing 409 yard par four, with trees and bunkers guarding the fairway. The green is protected by a lake and seven bunkers. Pancake found a watery grave for his approach shot.

“You know what you’ve got to do” he said to Gus. He gave him a man of Munster look. It was a look from the coaching manual of the Munster Front Row. Formidable. Uncompromising. Blood chilling.

Gus knew the shot, the club, and the yardage. He knew he could play this as well as the Big Boys of Tour. He took a deep breath, and played the shot. Pancake watched. So did the Chippie and the Chef. The ball landed on the green.

“Whatever your swing thought was, have it tattooed on your fecking arm” said Pancake.

The Chef stuck his ball on the green. Gus three putted and they took the long walk to the nineteenth. Away from the clubhouse and back into the driving rain. The Chippie got on the green for two. It was his hole to win in his lime flashed waterproof jacket. He missed the putt and they walked to the twentieth hole. And that is when Pancake spoke. They were not the words of a Munster man. Nor of the Munster Front Row. Pancake was throwing in the towel. Or going to find the towel.

“You are on your own after this” he said. “Me toes are wet and me fecking arse is wet and I want no more of it” he said, looking at the breached bunkers and flooded fairways. Gus let him hit his tee shot and then he too had his word. He stood tall and looked Pancake in the eye, under his umbrella. And then he spoke to his Munster Man.

“If you are going to leave me on my own you had better put this shot on the fecking green”.

Pancake stepped away from his ball and though about home. He thought about his Munster team, a forest of red flags and the strains of ‘Fields of Athenry’ echoing around Thomand Park. Lead by their giant lock and skipper O’Connell, the cathedral silence as Ronan O’Gara slotted the oval ball between the posts. He took his 8 iron out of the bag. He saw the flag and knew what he had to do. He took a practice swing and put the shot six feet from the pin. They shook hands with the Chippie and the Chef and trudged back to the club house. The victors and the vanquished in the sodden rain.

The Chippie bought the yellow trousers and went back to his distressed oak kitchen, which awaited the Welsh slate tiles. The Chef returned to his simmering stock pot, knives and chopping board at the little golf course in Surrey. Gus and Pancake wrote their names on the competition board. They wrote 20^th above their names. Just so people knew they were not ones to throw in the towel. Gus vowed he would never tell of Pancake’s words as they stood on the twentieth tee looking down to the church spire lost in the low cloud.

“We need our ‘A’ game for the next match” said Gus “but let’s pick a day when it’s not raining”.

“Couldn’t be this unlucky a third time” said Pancake with his wet behind and soggy feet.

They decided to get the game in early and check the long range weather forecast. Pancake decided to relegate his waterproofs to gardening duties and treat himself to an upgrade. He had a few gold stars in the pot from all the chores at home. They drove home and left the moorhens and ducks on the lake to the silence.

When Pancake got home he soaked in a hot bath before cooking tea for the missus. When the dishes were done he emptied the rainwater out of his glasses case and retrieved his wet phone from his golf bag. He wrapped it in bacofoil and put it in the oven on a gentle heat to dry out. Then he poured himself a drop of the black stuff and sent a text to his fairway partner.

Did you really think I would have left you on your own. Pancake x

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